


Off the Record

by bluejayblueskies



Series: Seen, Unseen, Unsung [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, End Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Humor, Light Angst, Tim Stoker Lives (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: "I- I'm sorry. I just... I suppose I thought you were dead, that's all."Tim's mouth pulls into a grimace as he sighs and says, "Yeah. I get that a lot."----Or, rumors travel fast at the Magnus Institute. Particularly when employees come back from the dead.
Relationships: Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives) & Original Character(s)
Series: Seen, Unseen, Unsung [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865830
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Off the Record

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is a oneshot in the Seen, Unseen, Unsung universe, taking place around roughly chapter four (though there are parts from later than that as well). It can technically be read as a standalone fic, though it will make more sense if you're familiar with the main work, which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25833007/chapters/62758660).
> 
> Rated teen for swearing.

When she was small, Tia had wanted to be a gymnast. She’d been able to balance on one foot for nearly half an hour, and though she couldn’t _quite_ land a backflip yet, she’d been sure that if she just tried hard enough, she’d be able to one day. She’d gone to all the classes, done all the training, but, in the end, it just… hadn’t quite worked out.

By comparison, working as a librarian is really rather drab. Even in such a… _unique_ library as that of the Magnus Institute. No need for cartwheels and lifting one’s foot behind one’s head when sitting behind a desk all day, checking out hardcovers to bright-eyed university students and cataloguing books from _Monsters of the Midwest_ to _Skin and Bone: A Guide to Human Anatomy._ Still, it can have its moments.

Like when Timothy Stoker walks through the doors to the library and she almost chokes on her tea.

He glances around for a moment, clearly searching for something, before his eyes land on her and something like relief crosses his face. She barely has time to register anything past _Timothy Stoker is alive_ before he’s at her desk and saying with a cheery smile, “Good morning! I don’t suppose you could point me in the direction of the ‘death’ section, could you?”

Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. Clearly, she- she’s missing something here. She tries to think back, to figure out _how_ exactly she’d missed the memo that Tim—who they’d had a lovely memorial for, with- with _cake_ and _wine_ and everything—is somehow _not_ , in fact, deceased. Then, her mind trips over itself as she’s reminded exactly _why_ they’d had a memorial in the first place, and how the circumstances are such that there is _no_ possible way that Tim can be standing here, smiling at her patiently and waiting for information regarding—

“Death,” she echoes, barely more than a whisper. “You- you want to know about death?”

“Well, resurrection in particular. Though I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

“R- right. It’s, er. Back corner, second stack from the left. There should be, um, a sign.”

Tim’s forehead creases slightly as he studies her face. “Are you all right? You, uh. You look a bit ill.”

“Oh.” Tia tries, with limited success, to wipe the shock from her face, to school her expression into something marginally more professional. “I- yes, I’m okay. Thank you, Tim.”

Tim begins to smile, but it’s interrupted mid-motion by a small frown of confusion. “How did you know my—oh. Oh, right.”

“I- I’m sorry,” Tia says quickly, though she’s not entirely sure _what_ , exactly, she’s sorry for yet. “I- I just…” She searches desperately for something to say that won’t be painfully awkward—maybe _I’m glad you’re alive_ or _What are you researching?_ —but what ultimately slips out is, “I suppose I just thought you were dead, that’s all.”

Great. Very smooth.

Tim’s mouth pulls into a grimace, and a hot wave of shame colors Tia’s face a deep purple. It keeps her mouth firmly shut, even as Tim sighs and says, “Yeah. I get that a lot. Back corner you said?”

Lips glued together, Tia nods a bit too emphatically.

“Great, thanks.” Tim turns, then hesitates. “It… it was nice to meet you again…” He takes a glance at the nameplate on her desk, smudged gold and slightly akilter. “…Tia.”

Swallowing the million and one questions dancing across the tip of her tongue, Tia nods again, just once.

Tim disappears into the stacks, drawing open-mouthed stares behind him as he goes, and Tia finally finds her way back to herself enough to breathe, deep and ragged and too-quick.

Perhaps she should have tried harder to become a professional gymnast. At least there would have been less ghosts.

* * *

Isaac hears about it first in whispers passed around the breakroom in between sips of bitter tea, tickling at him despite his steady resolve _not_ to get involved in office gossip. He remembers the incident of May 2016, and he’d _really_ rather not repeat it. Still, it’s hard to ignore a fire that burns just beneath your windows, licking underneath the doors you’ve locked and nailed shut, because, well. Houses are so, so flammable, after all.

So, yes. He knows that Timothy Stoker is apparently back from the dead. He hadn’t gone to his memorial, because he’d barely even _known_ the guy. It isn’t like he makes a habit of interacting with the Archives staff, and he certainly isn’t alone in that regard; _everyone_ knows that weird things go on down there. Weird like parasites that got the entire building evacuated, or weird like the _second_ evacuation due to, and he quotes, a ‘meat related incident.’ Or, apparently, weird like their staff members coming back from the dead. One was odd, sure. _Two_ is—

Well, two is just _too_ much. It isn’t that Isaac doesn’t believe in the supernatural; he works in Artifact Storage, for Christ’s sake, which is enough to make _anyone_ believe in monsters and give them nightmares to boot. No, it’s not that. It might be that he believes just a bit _too_ much.

Either way, when he steps into the break room on Monday morning to see Tim stood over the kettle, fixing himself a cup of tea, he almost jumps straight out of his skin.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he says, the shock adding a bite to his words that he doesn’t necessarily mean but doesn’t really want to take back either.

Tim startles as well, water sloshing up the side of his mug and narrowly avoiding spilling over the lip. “Jesus,” he says, setting the mug down with a _thunk_ and rubbing a hand over his eyes. “What does it look like?”

“I don’t mean—” Isaac cuts off with a frustrated sigh that’s only half directed at Tim. “God, forget it. This place is already so fucking weird, what’s a- a _dead_ guy in the grand scheme of things?” He stalks over to the kettle, reaching past Tim and grabbing a baby blue oversized mug from the cabinet. “Pass me a bag of Yorkshire?”

Tim’s staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “ _What?_ ”

Isaac sighs again and reaches past him to snag the box; his arm brushes against Tim’s as he does so. Hm. He feels real enough, corporeal _and_ a bit warm to the touch. “Never mind. I’ve got it.”

“No, hold on.” Tim’s hand closes on the handle of the kettle as Isaac reaches for it, sliding it out of reach. “Just like that? You drop the d-word and then we just _move on_?”

“Oh, sorry,” Isaac says, “am I breaking from the script? Not enough shock-and-awe for you?” He sets his mug on the counter and leans back slightly, crossing his arms across his chest. “They’re saying you don’t remember anything, so let me fill you in: this place was _plenty_ weird before you came back from the dead. _Especially_ the Archives. So, no. I’m not really too hung up on your resurrection or whatever. Congratulations, I guess?”

Tim’s eyebrows have shot up to his hairline. “Uh. Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t. Now, the kettle?”

Tim stares at him a moment longer before wordlessly sliding the kettle back. Isaac reaches over and fills his mug, the steam fogging his glasses for a moment and distorting Tim just enough that he really does look like a ghost, smudged at the edges and desaturated to shades of grey. By the time the fog clears, Tim’s gone, and Isaac takes a long sip of his too-hot tea as the telltale creak of the door to the Archives rings through the breakroom.

He’s really not one for gossip. Some things should just stay unsaid. And some things are simply none of his business at all.

Sticking your hand where it doesn’t belong is a good way to lose a limb. And Isaac’s quite fond of his.

He finishes his tea, leaves his mug on the drying rack, and returns to work.

* * *

The employee ID says Timothy Stoker, and the face of the man holding it certainly _looks_ like Timothy Stoker, but if they’re being honest with themself, Amar honestly thought everybody was just taking the piss when they’d said that Tim was alive. This job could get a bit… _depressing_ , if you let it, so this all being one big, elaborate (albeit ill-advised and tasteless) joke wasn’t all that far-fetched of an idea.

But here he is, flashing an ID at Amar that still proudly proclaims him as an Archival Assistant and giving them a too-wide smile. “Hey there! I’m here for the Archives?”

Amar’s quiet for perhaps a bit too long, because resignation dims Tim’s smile from blinding to flickering. “Right,” he says. “Suppose I might as well get this over with. Yes, I’m alive. No, I’m not a ghost. No, I don’t know how. No, I don’t remember you. And yes, I _do_ mind the staring and would prefer that you not. Any other questions?”

Amar’s eyes trace the words ‘Archival Assistant,’ and they find themself asking, “Do you even still work here?”

Tim flips the ID around and squints at it. “Well, there’s no expiration date on this thing,” he jokes, but it falls a bit flat. More earnestly, he says, “No, I- I don’t. Jon just—he thought it would be easier than trying to track down a new one. And apparently coming in through the tunnels is, quote, ‘interfering with his work.’” Tim wiggles his fingers in air quotes, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

Amar didn’t even know the Institute _had_ tunnels. They’re absolutely certain that they _don’t_ want to ask about them. Instead, they hold out a hand. “Fine. Let me try to scan it.”

Tim hands over the ID; the face on it is wide and smiling and bright and nothing at all like the Tim that Amar had gotten to know when they’d been hired nearly a year ago. Not that they’d had a lot of time to get to know him at all, really. They’d still felt that acute pang of loss at his memorial, though, surrounded by other people who barely knew Tim and noting with a twisting sensation in their stomach that not a single Archives staff member was in attendance.

They hadn’t understood why, at first. And then they had. Some griefs are private. Some pains aren’t meant to be shared. Some sorrows are too heavy to be experienced over cheap wine and bad cake.

That’s something they understand acutely well.

The ID scans well enough, pulling Tim’s record up on their computer. It looks like nobody had bothered to erase him from the system. Amar types a few things, replaces ‘Archival Assistant’ with ‘Registered Guest,’ and hands Tim back his ID. “You’re all set,” they say in a carefully schooled professional voice. “I assume I don’t need to give you directions?”

Tim’s smile is a bit more genuine as he takes his card back. “Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning, yeah?” He gives Amar a little mock salute as he steps past their desk. “Nice meeting you again,” he says over his shoulder. And then he’s gone, and Amar’s left with only the image of him on their computer screen and a numbness that’s quickly making way for stunned shock.

So the rumors are true, then. Maybe… maybe all of them are.

Amar probably shouldn’t ask about it. No, they- they definitely shouldn’t ask about it.

They close out of Tim’s profile and put it out of mind as the Institute’s door swings open again, allowing their face to fall into a plastered-on smile.

“Hello! Welcome to the Magnus Institute. How can I help you?”

* * *

If Rosie’s learned anything in this job, it’s that things are a _lot_ easier if you’re willing to be flexible.

A sudden schedule change? No problem, just update the calendar and make a call. Nothing she can’t handle. An employment dispute, one party demanding to speak to Mr. Bouchard right this instant? Well, he’s currently in a meeting, but I know _just_ the person you need to speak to, let me take you to them and we’ll get this sorted right away.

An employee who had been killed in an almost-certainly supernatural explosion six months ago returning to the Institute alive and well and with no memory of the past few years? Well, it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing Rosie had ever encountered at the Magnus Institute, and it definitely wasn’t something she couldn’t handle.

“How can you be so- so _cavalier_ about all of this?” Maeve asks between bites of her sandwich. They’re at that little café a few streets over from the Institute with the _lovely_ English breakfast blend, Rosie having left Amar to answer the phone until she came back. It’s nice to get out of the Institute sometimes, and it _is_ such a lovely day today.

“Cavalier about what?” Rosie says in feigned ignorance, taking a slow sip of her tea to hide her smile.

“Rosie McDonough, don’t play _coy._ You know what I’m talking about.”

Rosie lets out a small sigh. “It’s _really_ not a big deal, Maeve. You know how this place is. Honestly, it’s best if you just let things happen.”

Flexibility and minding one’s own business. Rosie’s always been quite fond of both, particularly in this line of work.

“See, you _say_ that, but this is- it’s too much!” Maeve takes another bite of her sandwich. Between chews, she continues, “It was strange enough when Jonathan Sims came back to work after a _six month coma_ , but for Christ’s sake, we had a _memorial service_ for Tim! We _mourned_ his death! People don’t come back from the dead, Rosie. They just _don’t._ ”

Rosie takes another sip of her tea and just hums. Best not to delve too deeply into _that_ one. Like she said—minding one’s own business was rather good for one’s health. No need to start more office rumors.

“Anyway,” Maeve continues after she’s swallowed, “you know what they’re saying, right? That he can bring other people back from the dead as well? Even _you_ can’t pass that off as normal.”

“What a man does during his private time is his own business,” Rosie says.

“Come _on,_ ” Maeve groans. “You’re not even a _little_ curious if it’s true? You’ve been working here, what, fifteen years now? _Tell_ me this isn’t the weirdest thing you’ve ever experienced.”

Rosie’s mug is empty when she goes to take a drink. Shame. She sets it down with a _clink_ and says, “It’s really not. But even if it were—”

“—it’s not your business,” Maeve cuts in with a groan. “Yes, yes, _fine._ ” She takes a sullen bite of her sandwich, and for a moment, there’s only the quiet chatter of the other guests at the café. Then, with the grin of someone who’s about to share a great secret, Maeve says, “He looks _great_ though, don’t you think? For a zombie.”

“Good lord, Maeve, just eat your sandwich.”

Flexibility, minding one’s own business, and keeping secrets. Rosie hands the envelope to Tim the next day, addressed to him in a familiar curling script, and thinks that some things are simply not hers to tell. Then, she returns to her desk and continues to work.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


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